MORE MISSED BARRELS, SAT 22DEC2012 MOR

Not deep enough

Loc: El Porto

Time: 0700-?

Crew: Klaude, Rick, Gary, Russel, Dave T., John A., Jimmy B.  

Conditions: 5-6 FT, offshore, consistent, walled with a mix of shoulders, crowded.

     Klaude had texted me the night before, asking where I wanted to surf. I told him that I had to stay local because of my move. I suggested that he surf Porto because Rick would be there and because Rick just finished repairing his surfboard (Rick jousted it on accident), that he would be taking with him. Klaude implied that he still wanted to surf more south but that he would still meet me at Porto to check the surf.

#

     When I pull up to the bathrooms where Rick is parked, Klaude is already there, and I’m surprised to see that he’s already changing. He must’ve seen something that changed his mind to make him want to surf here.

     I’d like to think that my surf crew is strong, but compared to Rick’s buddies, they eclipse us in experience, ability, and consistency, as KK and I are the only representatives of the DRC. 

     I say hi to Rick, and I’m just stoked to see everyone else who came out to surf with him, guys that I haven’t had a chance to surf with in a while.

     The surf is a little walled, but there are lots of good shoulders to be had, and despite the high tide some of the waves are big and hollow. Klaude and I watch in amazement. Russel, Gary’s son, goes for bombs, getting distance and making it out. We even see him set up on a right-hand drop, getting some cover up down the line. Rick’s the same as usual, scoring with ease on his thick, meaty boards. Gary takes off deep, living up to his nickname Balls Deep; he goes deeper than I would ever go. I can’t believe how good these guys are, how much older they are and able to charge. I hope I will still be able to do the same when I’m fifty.

     I go left, trying to pull in, but choose my waves poorly. I’d like to think that I’m getting barrel practice, but I’m pulling into closeouts or waves that don’t even go hollow; I’m forcing. It’s not until I go right, that I’m able to have fun on some back-hand snaps. Right now, my rear-hand top turn is the strongest thing I have in my arsenal, which isn’t much. But the big, steep drops set me up for a lot of speed. My JS is perfect for this surf, as the six-foot and three-inch length allows me to paddle into bigger waves than my Tokoro. I climb the face from my bottom turn fast, making a nice splashing sound as I disrupt the surface of the smooth shoulder with my top turn. I get one more turn on the inside.

     “That was a nice wave,” says John. “You got some nice spray out.”

     “Thanks,” I say. I appreciate the compliment, but what I really want is a barrel.

Missed Barrels:

     A while later, I catch a left that actually holds shape. I’m drawing a low line, trying to stall a little. I keep an eye on the lip, waiting to see when it will throw out. I try to tuck in close to the face, but there’s no room to get slotted. I fade out a little, but it’s too late. Now I’m on the inside, and the wave is turning to white wash, finished.

     Back on the sand, John is taking pics. He says, “I got some good pictures of you, Donny!”

     I pause, holding my smile until confirmation. “Pics of me wiping out?” I ask.

     “No, you’re going down the line, looking good. Big cylinder behind you, but looking stylish.”

     Fuck . . . I probably missed a barrel is the first thing that comes to mind, and then he sends me the picture later that night. The cylinder is right behind me. The whole time, the barrel . . . it’s behind me, and I didn’t even know it. I should be stoked, but I have to be honest with myself. I lack the experience to know what to do when it comes to barrels. I should have faded out, watched it, waited for it, pulled in, check turned, and then stalled. Of course, all this is easy to say but another thing to do. Time, more time, more wipeouts. But everything is always happening so fast, so fast because . . . I know no better yet. One day.

     I spend the rest of the day moving a couple things in, cleaning my old place. I can’t believe how much shit I own. It’s ridiculous. Even though the journey of finding a new place is over, this current task seems endless.

NEW BEGINNINGS, FRI 21DEC2012 NOON

A quick check before parking on Rosecrans

Loc: El Porto

Time: 1130-1345

Crew: Shan

Conditions: 4 FT, sunny, light offshores, consistent, walled, and crowded.

     A morning session’s out of the question because I must finally do some of my Christmas shopping before my family’s dinner. I shoot out texts to my siblings, asking what my nieces and nephew need. I also have to coordinate where I’m going to look for these items. Shan, Dais, and Khang tell me that they’re paddling out. I tell them I’ll see them soon because I figure I’ll be done in an hour.

#

     I don’t make it to Rosecrans until three hours later. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it wasn’t the women’s clothing that I had to search for; it’s so difficult! I don’t understand women’s sizes. Why not just have it set at XS, S, M, and L?

     Shan’s on his way, and Khang and Dais are already by the sandwich shack at Porto. As I make my way down, I feel the power of the noon-time sun, striking me from directly above. It’s a perspective that I rarely get. I usually surf really early or really late, but not at this time.

     I find Khang’s van in the Porto lot, but I can’t see the guys in the water. In memory of Fransauce, I lift Khang’s wipers to leave him a message. I paddle out between the north end of the Rosecrans break and the south end of the sandwich shack, in the saddle where it’s not breaking that much. I sit next to other stragglers that are avoiding the crowd as well.

     Mostly walls come my way, and I pass. In frustration, I paddle closer to the right that’s breaking near the sandwich shack. And luckily, I catch two rights here but get no more than two turns on each ride.

     I spend a little over two hours in the water with only a few good rides to show for. The wind starts to change. I never run into Dais, Khang, or Shan, so I head back up on Rosecrans.

     As I’m changing, I hear someone yell, “Is that Donny Duckbutter!” I look and see Shan walking up the hill, dripping wet in his wetsuit with board in hand. He tells me he was at the Rosecrans peak and that he got some good rides. I ask if he’s hungry.

Steve’s Burgers:

     I’ve always seen this burger joint in El Segundo but have never eaten here. We order the burger combo which is $4.95. I whip out my wallet when Shan says, “No, man, I got it. Get me next time.” I’m more than thankful . . . grateful.

     Bri calls while we’re eating. She says she left her work shoes at my place. I tell her to stop by the burger joint to grab my keys.

     When she pulls up, Shan and I watch her park. Shan smiles and looks at me. “We’re gonna be dogs forever,” he says.

     I smile and nod my head. I hear the car door slam and her footsteps approaching us. Shan’s eyes widen and rise as she sets her hand on my shoulder and says, “Hey, baby.”

     I stand up, give her a hug and kiss. Shan doesn’t smile. Instead his mouth is slightly open, lagging behind the welcoming lift of his eyebrows. “Shan, this is Briana. Briana, Shan.”

     After she grabs her keys and goes back in her car, Shan turns to me and says, “Good for you, man!”

Official:

     I’m sitting in my realtor’s office, nervous like it’s an interview. He hands me some documents to sign. I do. He hands me the keys to the place. I thank him. The first thing I do is call Time Warner because I need Internet, at least Internet. From there I head to my new place. It’s empty. I’ve done it . . . I’m here, I’m back. I’m an El Segundo resident again. Even though the place is empty, I spend a half hour wondering where I should put my TV, my computer, and the couch. . . . Will they even fit? I don’t know. All I know is this . . . It’s gonna be a BITCH moving all my shit in. I set a goal to be completely moved in by Friday.

WINDY WALLS, THU 20DEC2012 MOR

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 1000-1130

Crew: Shan & Khang

Conditions: 3-4 FT, sunny, strong offshores, consistent, walled.

Pre Blog:

     It’s been over twelve days since I updated this blog. Even though school has been over for over two weeks now, I was faced with the challenge of not only moving, but having family to help out, as well as everything that comes with the holidays. Only two days ago did things finally slow down. Now . . . I can write, but please excuse my hazy memory of my past surf sessions.

The Morning Check:

     Shan shoots me a text while I’m still in bed. “Heading out,” he says. Fuck . . . it’s so cold. My friend’s house has terrible insulation, so my room’s still a refrigerator even with my space heater that’s set on high. When I open the door to the living room, it’s like opening a freezer. I brush my teeth and fill up two jugs with scalding hot water. I throw on my dirty ass clothes because when you’re a surfer, you don’t need to wear anything fresh nor take a fucking shower every night. Every other day works for me at this point, even the underwear goes inside out, at least wearing it for two, maybe three days, depending if I had a borderline shart incident. My shirt only half reeks, as the armpit-smell test is in the yellow zone between green and red. I hop on the 405 north to get to Manhattan Beach. I miss the days of living in El Segundo, where the surf was just a short distance. Even though my current distance is reasonable, there’s nothing like living just a couple miles from the surf and not that fake surf where one lives by the water, but that spot is unsurfable. Nope.

Meet the Wind:

     The cold, offshore, winter air blasts my gray hoodie, pressing it against my body. My hood is forced forward onto my brow as I turn my back to the wind. My hands shoot into my pocket while my lungs inhale a winter fresh breath of air. I step over the run path, past the walkers and joggers. 

It’s sunny with nothing but a blue screen for a sky. The lack of cloud cover makes it seem like a roof is missing, letting all the cold air in. Over the ocean, a half mile wall breaks over the inside. It’s white and brown, marble like. Some banners flying on the beach say that two high schools are out there. I’m not sure if this is a competition or practice, but they are going for the walls, most of them pulling in, holding their lines even though the barrels are closing out. As Captain Willard said in Apocalypse Now, “What balls.” I watch, and I watch, and I watch. It’s low tide. Could use more water, I’m thinking. I turn around and head to the lower lot, finding Shan and Veronica in his 4Runner, making the final adjustments on their booties and gloves. There’s a fun board in the back. Not good conditions for any beginner. We exchange greetings. He says that he and Veronica are going to paddle out. I don’t want to shit on their stoke, so I keep my opinion to myself, but what about me? Am I really gonna paddle out now? I tell them that I’ll join them, but first I’m gonna move my car.

Decisions:

     I’m at the top of the hill looking down. The flags over the lifeguard station are flapping helplessly in the wind. If only the wind would die a little bit. I get a text from Khang: “I’ll be there around nine,” he says. I text him back, letting him know the conditions.

     While I’m waiting, I scroll through the Westside Rentals app on my phone, seeing if anything new popped up in any of the beach cities. It’s something that I’ve been doing this whole month, obsessively searching through listings, contemplating on the possibilities of where I can live and for how much. I look on this studio that I’ve had my eyes on. It’s expensive and at the ceiling of my budget. It’s only a studio, with its only consolation being that the utilities are free, parking is good, and it has a shared garage. And to save the best for last . . . It’s in El Segundo, literally a couple blocks from where I was living only nine months ago. But space . . . space is an issue. I call the realtor, and he tells me the unit is unlocked. I shoot Khang a text, letting him know that I’m gonna check out an apartment and come back.

    

A Possible Future:

     When I walk through the door, I first notice that the paint smells fresh. There are rental apps on the kitchen counter. The kitchen’s small, but doable for a bachelor. The counter top kicks ass, takes place of a dining room table to make up for space. The bathroom is decent, no tub, just stand-up shower. But the living room . . . it’s small, but shit . . . I don’t have much. Especially with storage space in the garage? All my bullshit can go in there.

Surf:

     When I paddle out, I don’t see Shan, but I see Khang in the water. He catches a right before I duckdive his same wave. He paddles up to me and says, “There’s some fun ones out here.”

     The wind has died a little, so has the size, but the shape is still an issue. Most of the waves are walled. Out of frustration, Khang starts going for them, catching little bombs that offer no line to take. I, myself, catch a right, good enough for one top turn.

     About an hour later, Khang gets a decent left all the way to shore. He comes back to the lineup and says, “It’s gonna get good now . . . watch! The wind just died, the tide’s coming up . . . it’s gonna get good.”

     And it should, despite the fact that I’m usually a curse to Khang whenever we’re together. Somehow, we barely score waves together. Every time I’ve taken him on a day trip somewhere, the waves have been only so-so or completely terrible, and as the past has proven before, the shape does not improve.

Decision Made:

     Back at home, I ponder at my options. I could live in Long Beach where it’s cheaper and closer to school, but how much would I spend on gas driving to the South Bay? Sure, I’d be closer to HB and the other spots further south, but the South Bay is where my heart is, it’s even at crowded ass Porto where I don’t surf as often. My family is here, my surf family is here, and so are some of my military perks that I take advantage of at the air force base. I could live in Hawthorne or Gardena, but that’s not where I want to be. It’s one thing to live where it’s affordable and another to worry about having your car broken into. After browsing around online, I come to the conclusion that I’m moving to a beach city, close to the surf, or nothing. I call the realtor and set a meeting to bring in my rental application. The prospect of living in El Segundo fills me with anticipation and joy. I love that town. What if I could live in my old neighborhood again, close to the surf, in such a good community? I wouldn’t have to worry about getting jacked for my shit just for taking a walk in the street. Peace of mind, a humble abode in my favorite SoCal town. I’d be back to nights of Stuft Crust Pizza, or maybe a Cuban from Havana Sandwich Company, or a Holly Street bagel sandwich for only three bucks and some change from The Blue Butterfly.

     I tell myself not to get my hopes up so much . . . but what if?